The Shelf and the Struggle
Letting Go of Expectations and Learning to Ask for Help
There’s this moment I keep coming back to, even though it happened over a year ago. It’s a small memory, one that might seem insignificant to anyone else, but it’s stayed with me, hovering in the background of my mind. I was standing in my parents’ garage, surrounded by the familiar smell of sawdust and motor oil, struggling to fix this old, crooked shelf that had collapsed out of nowhere. It was one of those shelves that had seen better days, its wood worn from years of holding up forgotten boxes of knickknacks and holiday decorations. I thought it would be an easy fix — just a few screws and it’d be as good as new. But no matter how much I adjusted, how many angles I tried, the thing refused to line up. It was as if the universe had conspired against this simple task.
Each second that ticked by, I felt myself getting more frustrated — not at the shelf, but at everything. It wasn’t about a piece of wood anymore. It felt like the shelf was some kind of cruel metaphor for my whole life. Things were falling apart, and I was desperately trying to keep them together, to fit the pieces back into place, but I couldn’t. I was failing.
To be fair, I wasn’t in the middle of a life-shattering crisis or anything. It wasn’t one of those dramatic low points people talk about in self-help books. I was just stuck. I’d graduated college a year before and was floating in this strange, unspoken limbo, where nothing made sense, yet everything felt heavy. I had a job, sure — it paid the bills, but it wasn’t the kind of job that made me jump out of bed in the morning. It was just… there, like background noise. Meanwhile, I watched as my friends embarked on these exciting new chapters of their lives. Promotions, grad school acceptances, cross-country moves to vibrant, bustling cities. Every time I scrolled through social media, it felt like a highlight reel of everyone else’s progress while I was stuck on pause. The same town, the same job, the same questions.
And then, there was my dad.
That afternoon, as I struggled with the shelf, my dad walked into the garage. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his familiar silhouette outlined against the late afternoon light that streamed in from the open garage door. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched as I fumbled with screws and a level, probably amused at my efforts but too polite to show it. I could feel his presence — silent but expectant, like he was debating whether to step in. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of me battling with the shelf, he spoke: “Need some help?”
It sounds harmless, right? Just a simple question. But the way he said it, the tone, the timing — it hit me like a ton of bricks. He wasn’t criticizing me, but I couldn’t help but take it that way. His words felt like a spotlight on all the things I couldn’t fix. Not just the shelf, but everything. My life, my career, my direction. I was the guy who couldn’t even fix a piece of furniture without help. I was the guy who didn’t have it together, who wasn’t moving forward.
I mumbled something like, “Nah, I got it,” even though it was obvious that I didn’t. He nodded, didn’t press, and quietly slipped back into the house, leaving me alone with my frustration. I stayed in that garage for what must have been another hour, stubbornly fighting with screws and angles, trying to will the shelf into submission. When I finally got it to stand, I expected to feel a sense of triumph, but all I felt was exhaustion. The kind that goes beyond physical tiredness — it was like I was emotionally drained from the weight of everything I’d been carrying.
That moment haunted me for weeks afterward. It wasn’t just the shelf, or even my dad’s question. It was the fact that it reminded me of every time in my life where I felt like I wasn’t measuring up. Like I was always just a little behind. I had this mental checklist of where I should be by 25 — stable career, decent income, maybe even considering buying a place of my own. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, I felt more and more like I was falling short of every expectation, both mine and everyone else’s.
The worst part was, I didn’t know how to talk about it. I wasn’t in some dark place where I needed to reach out for help, but I also wasn’t content. I was hovering in this strange in-between, feeling like I had something to prove but unsure of who I was trying to prove it to.
A few weeks later, my dad and I were sitting in the backyard, the sun sinking low behind the trees, casting long shadows across the grass. We weren’t talking about anything particularly meaningful — just sports, work, the usual stuff that fills silences. But then, out of nowhere, he said something that completely floored me. “You know,” he started, taking a slow sip of his beer, “when I was your age, I didn’t have half the stuff figured out that I thought I would.”
It was a simple statement, but it hit me differently. My dad, the guy I’d always looked up to as the definition of ‘having it together,’ was admitting he didn’t have all the answers at my age either. And he wasn’t saying it to make me feel better; it was just a fact. You don’t have everything figured out. You’re not supposed to.
Suddenly, I thought back to that shelf in the garage. I realized I hadn’t been frustrated just because I couldn’t fix it — I was angry at myself for thinking I should be able to. For expecting perfection in a world that doesn’t work that way. Life is messy. Sometimes things don’t fit together, no matter how hard you try.
Since that conversation, I’ve tried to ease up on myself. I’m learning to accept that life isn’t a straight path. There’s no timeline for when things need to happen, no checklist of accomplishments you need to hit by a certain age. Life is unpredictable. Sometimes, you’ll get it right. Other times, things will fall apart. And both are okay.
A few weeks ago, I was back in the garage, fixing something else — this time, a loose cabinet handle. My dad walked by, glanced at the tools scattered across the floor, and asked with a grin, “Need some help?” This time, I laughed, handed him the screwdriver, and said, “Yeah, actually, I could use some.” And for the first time, it felt good to admit that.
